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doctorbitchcrxft · 5 months ago

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In My Time of Dying | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ?)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, hospitals and death and fun stuff like that

Word Count: 2997

A/N: Surprise! It's time for season 2! And as an extra treat, I'm gonna publish episode 2 with this one since it's a little short. Happy reading!! Thank you guys for all the love and support!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You were completely pinned down beneath the side of the car that had been pushed into your lap in the accident. You clung to Dean still, afraid to move your upper-half and unable to move your bottom. You listened to the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat and willed him to stay alive for you.

Your eyes opened at the sound of Sam groaning.

“Sam!” you exclaimed.

He groaned again, moving his head a little to the direction of the sound of your voice. “(Y/N)?”

Suddenly, the hinges were ripped off the driver’s side door to reveal the demon-possessed driver of the eighteen-wheeler that had struck the Impala.

“Back. Or I'll kill you, I swear to god,” Sam stated firmly.

“You won't. You're saving that bullet for someone else.”

Sam cocked the Colt. “You wanna bet?”

You looked on in fear before the demon poured out of the man, and he collapsed to the ground. You heard the sound of the gun uncocking, and Sam dropped his head back in relief.

“Oh my god!” you heard the trucker’s voice say. “Did I do this?”

“Dean, come on,” you whined. “Please.”

Sam called his brother’s name and told the trucker to call 911. He did so despite his panic. After what felt like forever, emergency services were to you. The EMTs had to pry you off of Dean, and you wailed in agony as they moved your sore body away from him. “No, please! I have to stay with him!”

“Ma’am, don’t fight us, please. We don’t want to hurt you more,” the EMT strapping you into a stretcher and neck brace said. She began to shout your blood pressure and vitals to the uniformed people surrounding you as you called out to Dean again. “Please! Just tell me he’s okay!”

No one would answer you.

“Is he even alive?!”

***

As soon as the doctors told you you could go see Dean, you leapt out of the bed as well as you could on your throbbing leg and bruised rib cage. Thankfully, that was as serious as your injuries got. You had no idea what the Winchesters’ situations were.

You limped down the hallway to Dean’s room just down the hall from yours and took a sharp breath in horror. Wires were hooked up to every part of him. He was intubated, and machines steadily beeped around him. His chest was exposed with electrodes hooked up to it. His forehead had a deep cut running down the center of it, and his body remained lifeless. You tentatively walked over to his bedside and sat in the empty chair next to it. You held his hand tightly and kissed it repeatedly. “Dean, you have to come back to me, please.” Tears streamed down your face.

Sam walked in the room just after you did, giving you his puppy dog eyes at the sight of you holding his brother’s hand and Dean’s body. “Oh, no,” he said.

You dropped Dean’s hand long enough to hobble over to Sam and hug him as tightly as your damaged body would allow. “I’m so glad to see you, man. Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Are you?”

“All things considered, yeah,” you replied.

A doctor entered the room behind you and Sam. “Your father's awake. You can go see him if you like.”

“Doc, what about my brother?” Sam asked.

“Well, he sustained serious injury: blood loss, contusions to his liver and kidney. But it's the head trauma I'm worried about. There's early signs of cerebral edema,” the doctor explained.

“Well, what can we do?” You looked between Sam and the doctor worriedly.

“Well, we won't know his full condition until he wakes up.” The doctor paused. “If he wakes up.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “If?”

“I have to be honest, most people with this degree of injury wouldn't have survived this long. He's fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations.”

Your chest felt like someone was squeezing the air out of you. You began to hyperventilate as you made your way back over to Dean. Using his bed for support, you eased yourself back down into the chair and picked up his hand again.

Sam looked at you sadly before exiting the room, presumably to go see his father.

“It’s gonna be fine,” you muttered. “John ‘ll know what to do. You’re gonna wake up, and I’m gonna tell you everything. You have to come back to me, so I can tell you.” Tears streamed steadily down your face. “You have to come back, Dee. You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you, man. I… I need you here. I need you.” You brought his hand up to your lips and just held it there as you sobbed. After a while, you drifted off, crying and holding onto Dean tightly.

***

It had been hours of sitting next to Dean and praying to a god you didn’t believe in that he’d wake up and this would all be over. You needed to tell him the feelings you’d been holding in for the better half of a year now. You needed him to know how much he meant to you.

You just needed to talk to him. And so, you did. “Dean, I’ve never told you this— in fact, I feel weird saying it now— but you matter more to me than anybody else in my life has. You just… you make my day better just by being in it. And I hope I do the same for you.

“Y’know, I never really hated you. You frustrated me so fucking much, but I could never hate you.” You drew in a breath. “I figured out that the reason I thought I hated you was because you challenged me. You told me you found me intimidating, but you never treated me like I was. That’s the difference between you and most other people. You’re fearless. Completely. It scares me sometimes, honestly. But you make me stronger, Dean. And I just… I hope I make you feel half as much as you make me feel. There’s so much I have to tell you when you wake up. I probably won’t say any of this to you while you’re awake— y’know, vulnerability and all that— but… I just needed to say it in case—” Your throat caught. “In case I never see you again.”

***

Another hour had gone by of you sitting with Dean. You refused to move from your spot to eat or drink or go to the bathroom. All that mattered was that you kept your eyes on him. You told yourself that if you could still feel or see him, then he was here. And that was enough.

You stared at his peaceful features. You remembered for a moment what he’d looked like sleeping, and you could almost see it now. However, the wires and tubes obstructing your view kept you grounded in the horrible reality that was the present moment: you and Sam may be leaving without him.

Your heart rate picked up as that thought crossed your mind and began to race even more as Dean flatlined.

“Help, help!” you screamed. You raced out into the hallway. “Code Blue, room 202! Code Blue!”

Doctors and nurses immediately responded to your call and rushed behind you into the room. You watched in horror as they began to try and resuscitate him.

Sam had apparently heard your cries and ran down the hallway to you.

“Sam, he flatlined, he—” You buried your face in his chest, and he guided you into the room against the far wall.

“Still no pulse,” a nurse said. You couldn’t bear to watch as they shocked his lifeless body.

Sam suddenly stiffened against you just as the frantic beeping of the monitors quieted.

“We have a pulse. We're back into sinus rhythm,” the nurse said.

You let go of Sam and breathed deeply as you turned to his brother. You couldn’t get to him due to the doctors and nurses still fussing about, but you smiled briefly at the fact that he was still here. You looked up at the younger brother. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I just thought I heard something,” he said looking around confused. “It felt like Dean.”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him. “What do you mean?”

“Like, he was there, just out of eyeshot or something. I don't know if it's my psychic thing or what, it— But do you think it's even possible? I mean, do you think his spirit could be around?”

You shrugged, suddenly feeling embarrassed of the things you’d admitted to Dean’s unconscious body. “Anything’s possible.”

“Well, there's one way to find out.” Sam began to leave Dean’s room.

“Where are you going?”

“I gotta pick something up. I'll be back. Let me go tell my Dad.”

***

About an hour later, you still sat holding Dean’s right hand. You couldn’t let go now that you’d almost lost him a second time. Sam reentered the room. He was clutching a brown paper bag with an oblong object in his arms.

“Welcome back,” you said. “What’s that?”

Sam seemed embarrassed. “I, uh, almost don’t wanna say.” He pulled out a Ouija Board.

You snorted. “Seriously?”

He ignored you and looked around the room at nothing. “Hey. I think maybe you're around. And if you are, don't make fun of me for this, but um, well, there's one way we can talk.” He sat the box and board on the floor in front of Dean’s bed. You looked on eagerly.

“Dean? Dean, are you here?” He put two fingers on each hand on the planchette. Moments later, it moved to “YES” on the board.

“Sam, don’t tell me you’re doing that,” you breathed out. “Or do, I don’t know which answer I want.”

“It's good to hear from you, man,” Sam laughed. “It hasn't been the same without you, Dean.”

The pointer began to slide around the board. “Dean, what? H? U? Hunt? Hunting? What, are you hunting?”

The pointer slid back to "YES."

“It's in the hospital; what you're hunting? Do— Do you know what it is?” Sam paused and gained his composure. “What is it?”

The pointer slid across the board too fast for you to read from your position next to Dean’s body.

“A reaper. Dean. Is it after you?”

You watched with bated breath as the pointer slid to “YES.”

“If it's here naturally, there's no way to stop it,” Sam murmured. “Man, you're, um—” He got up from the ground and began to pace.

“No, no, no,” you said, looking over to Dean’s peaceful features. “You’re not fucking leaving me, dammit. There’s gotta be a way.”

“Dad'll know what to do.” Sam rushed out of the room, leaving the Ouija board on the ground.

You slowly stood and moved over to the board. You immediately missed the feeling of his hand in yours, even if he couldn’t hold back. You sat before the board and let out a shaky breath, placing your hands on the planchette. “Dee, you still here?”

The planchette slid to “YES” before returning to the middle of the board.

You huffed out an anxious breath. “Did you, um, did you hear what I said earlier?”

It slid back to “YES.”

“Oh, God, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you until you were awake again,” you rushed out. “I didn’t— I’m sorry— Can you—”

“S” “L” “O” “W” “D” “O” “W” “N” the board spelled out.

You laughed shakily. “Sorry.” You paused. “Do you— Do you feel the same way?”

The planchette hesitated before sliding over to “YES.” A smile you couldn’t contain spread across your face. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you die now.”

Sam returned moments later carrying his father’s journal. “Hey. So Dad wasn't in his room.”

“Where is he?” you asked.

“Who knows? Maybe there's something here.” He tapped the journal before leafing through it. He stopped on the page that said “Reapers.”

“How’s this supposed to help us, Sam? We already know we can’t kill ‘em,” you stated.

“I know, I know, I just… I thought maybe there’d be something else here. A way to… bargain with ‘em or something.”

You smiled at him sadly. Not knowing what else to say, you told him, “I know he appreciates that you’re not givin’ up on him, Sammy.”

***

Hours later, Sam had poured through almost every page of the journal. He paced around the room and began talking to Dean’s spirit. “Dean, are you here? I couldn't find anything in the book. I don't know how to help you. But I'll keep trying, all right? As long as you keep fighting.

"I mean, come on you can't, you can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that.” He stopped and stood over you, looking down at his brother. “Dean, you gotta hold on. You can't go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again. Can you hear me?”

***

You had even slept with Dean’s hand in yours through the night. Sam had gone in and out of the room a few times, but never John.

“Sam, what do we do, man?” You brushed a hand over your eyes, feeling exhausted and fueled by emotion all at once.

He shook his head. “I’m thinkin’, okay?” he snapped.

“Sorry,” you muttered after a moment.

“Me, too,” he said.

Suddenly, Dean shot up and gasped, choking on the tube in his throat.

“Help! I need help!” you called into the hallway.

***

“I can't explain it. The edema's vanished,” the doctor explained. “The internal contusions are healed. Your vitals are good. You have some kind of angel watching over you.”

“Thanks, doc,” Dean said.

Your stomach sank knowing Dean didn’t remember what you’d said to him while he’d been unconscious, but you felt comforted knowing he felt the same way. You’d tell him when he was out of that crummy hospital gown, that somehow, he still managed to make look attractive.

Dean turned to his brother. “So, you said a Reaper was after me?”

You and Sam nodded.

“How'd I ditch it?”

You shrugged. “We don’t know. You really don’t remember… anything?”

“No. Except this pit in my stomach. (Y/N), something's wrong.”

The three of you turned your head to a knock at the door. John limped in for the first time you’d seen him since the accident. You fought the urge to start yelling at him about how he hadn’t come to see his son.

“How you feeling, dude?” John asked his son.

“Fine, I guess. I'm alive.”

John smiled sadly for a reason you couldn’t place. “That's what matters.”

“Where were you last night?” Sam was angry.

“I had some things to take care of.”

Sam scoffed. “Well, that's specific. Did you go after the demon?”

“No.”

“You know, why don't I believe you right now?”

John half-smiled despite the situation. “Can we not fight?” he pleaded. “You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy, I— I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “Dad, are you alright?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, son, would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?”

Sam left you and Dean with John.

“I, uh, have a thing. At a… place,” you mumbled awkwardly, leaving the room. You stood outside and waited for Sam to return, bouncing on your heels and thinking about how and when you were going to tell Dean how you felt for the second time.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by John putting a hand on your shoulder. Strangely, he pulled you into a hug. “I’m happy I ran into you in Jericho. Thanks for watching my boys.” And with that, he left. You watched him retreat back to his room for a moment before heading back in to see Dean.

“Hey,” you said awkwardly.

“Hey,” he responded, seeming a little out of it. “What’re you nervous about?”

“I feel like the timing’s really bad for me to tell you,” you responded. "Especially with your dad and his cryptic thing he did just now."

“Well, now you definitely have to,” Dean half-smirked.

You took a deep breath. “While you were… out… I told you something.”

He looked at you expectantly.

You huffed out a quick breath. “You remember that stupid pinky promise I made you make? You told me I confuse you, and you promised to tell me why someday. Is… Are you? I mean— Jesus, I’m never like this—”

Before you or Dean could continue, you suddenly heard Sam screaming, “Help! Somebody, help!” from down the hall. You and Dean jerked to attention and looked at each other briefly before leaping off the bed and running down the hall. When you reached the doorway, John was being taken away from Sam and Sam was shoved out of the room.

A nurse tried to shove you and Dean away as well. “No, no, no, it's our dad. It's our dad!”

She stopped pushing you and allowed you to stay by the door.

“C’mon, John,” you muttered. “C’mon.”

“Okay, stop compressions.”

Your heart sank watching Dean’s horrified face as they called the time of his father's death.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #spn #spn series rewrite #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite

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gothicprep · 25 days ago

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the objectively funniest part about election years is that candidates are basically trying to be the president of pennsylvania instead of the president of the United States. what makes this amusing is that pennsylvania has some sort of undiscovered chemical in the water that makes everyone who lives there a very specific kind of crazy – I’m including myself in this, obviously – and politicians just don’t know how to capture that lightning in a bottle.

trump is admittedly getting sort of close by DJing an incomprehensible playlist and talking about arnold palmer being hung. “the late, great hannibal lecter” is, unfortunately, a very pennsy-pilled statement.

if i could give kamala some advice on how to run for the president of pennsylvania, I’d tell her to purchase 3 or 4 exotic pets. preferably spider monkeys. and bring them on stage with her while they wear those leash backpack things people buy for toddlers. or invest in an unusual statement hat, such as a trucker cap that says “my eyes are up here” with an arrow pointing up. now that’s the pennsy essence.

#taking the pennsy pill is eating uranium. not that I would know anything about that.

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razzellyn · 3 months ago

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The ask disappeared but uh... I think it was from @gweebis ? Idk i forgor I'm sorry :(

But here's

Music 'n Talkin'

In which the reader and the bot's sneak out in the middle of the night and hang out!

• Mega Trucker

• Phoenix Fire

• Shadow X

• Fleta Z

• Wild Guardy (i kept forgetting him 💔)

(Odd choices of bots ik)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Mega Trucker:

• The two of you always hangout somewhere FAR from civilization. Not that it's 'romantic', but because your music playlists are louder than a night in the weekend.

• The hangout usually consists of loud music, loud talking, and some crazy breakdance from either of you.

• Oh it's always a blast! For you two. Sure, the two of you almost got caught and confronted, but somehow everyone believed your lies. (No they didn't.)

• One time the two of you were having too much fun, half of a neighborhood could hear your music. Good thing the cops didn't find out, not even Blue Cop!

• Sometimes, your little hangout session can get tiring. Too much dancing and talking loudly is extremely tiring you know?

• So, as a way to cool down, you two cuddle. Totally normal friendship cuddling. The two of you just lay on the ground, watching the stars and talking, less loudly this time.

• At one point you two slept on the ground, hugging each other. Safe to say, Mega Trucker doesn't actually mind!

• Not without being slightly flustered, but he wouldn't pass on a cuddle. He actually really likes it!

• Perhaps the two of you could just... cuddle? Not after a tiresome dance off, just regular, totally friendly cuddle! He would like that.

Phoenix Fire:

• You weren't expecting Phoenix Fire to be up and about especially late at night. But you're not complaining. His company definitely made your nights better than alone.

• The two of you started off being quietly awkward with each other. Not knowing what to talk about while also being terribly tired.

• Overtime, you gradually learned how to keep the conversation going. He seems to really enjoy his job. Even with his fears sometimes taking over him.

• You find that he's very VERY talkative. Even in the dead of night. He is quite literally a golden retriever. Somehow always full of energy.

• You talked about your past once and now he seemed persistent in finding the whole story. Practically begging you to tell him all about your adventures. Even if there's none.

• Remember, it's still nightime. Despite your or his interesting stories, the two of you are... probably sleep deprived.

• Once you were just talking your mind off, and he was dozed off without any of you realizing. He's a bit sheepish once you wake him up, apologizing to you over and over before you told him to just rest.

• By rest, you meant sleeping together. Not that. Just you leaning onto him as he leaned against a wall or.. tree or whatever. You two just sleep like that.

• This went on for too many times to count, resulting in either of you sleeping on accident before the other sleeps as well. You woke up with a hurting back though, good luck with that.

• At least he's kind enough to help you relax. Basically massaging you, like Blue Cop in that one scene in eps 2. (Can everybot do that?)

Shadow X:

• Totally didn't stalk you in the middle of the night. It's not creepy if you're friends. Definitely creepy if you're not though.

• You told him that his rotors were quite loud, especially at night, telling him that he'd need to get to your hangout place by foot. Guess what he did?

• Nothing. Still using his vehicle mode. He pisses you off that it's endearing in a way.

• Hangout usually goes with you two laying on the ground, stargazing as you two talk. What's surprising is that, he's actually willing to have a deep talk with you.

• Still sarcastic about it though. Just less annoying.

• Other times he'd take you out on a ride. Letting you sit in his cockpit as he flies over the buildings or clouds. It's a great view actually. Perhaps that's why he flies so often.

• He's still energetic. Despite being in the dead of night. Surprisingly though he actually isn't THAT annoying around this time. Probably because he's tired.

• Sometimes you've even slept in his cockpit. He doesn't really mind it, it's actually quite peaceful to him.

• Though he will wake you up once he's nearing your house. He doesn't plan on letting you sleep in his cockpit all night.

• If he ends up sleeping however, he's still going to sleep even if you force him to wake up. He's probably in a position too comfortable for him to bother sleeping properly.

Fleta Z:

• His music scared you at one point. Who wouldn't though? A random flute being played in the middle of the night? Horror film right there.

• Fortunately you start getting used to his music. Even finding it soothing, especially at night.

• Your little hangout session is really peaceful! You two just talk about whatever that comes to mind and laugh at jokes you come up with.

• He's much more silly now that you've learned more about him.

• Sometimes you two watch videos on your phone. You've even shown some video games! Man, he's seriously interested in that.

• Other times the two of you just started stargazing. Moongazing. Cloudgazing. Whatever there is in the night sky.

• If the city starts getting a little too loud at night time, say some type of celebration, the two of you move a little closer to the forest. You might even come across Dexter!

• Whenever you two hangout, Fleta Z would tell you to go to sleep. Perhaps even try to make you sleep by playing his flute, surprisingly it works.

• He'd lull you into a near-sleep state with his flute, gently bringing you to rest as you lean against him.

• His presence is really calming for someone his size, even more surprising how gentle he could be with your sleeping form.

• You're never gonna catch him sleep though. Good luck if you're trying to.

Wild Guardy:

• You're surprised he's still awake he's surprised you're still awake.

• The hangout usually goes like this: Awkward silence. Comments on today's events. Talking smack about some bot. Comfortable silence. "So how's your day?"

• It almost never changes. 'Almost', because now he stopped talking smack about other bots and that left you confused for a bit, but it's a nice change.

• The two of you weren't exactly the most 'social' when compared to the others. Yet somehow it's as if you guys haven't run out of topics for a conversation.

• It's surprisingly a 'fun' talk with him. Probably because you're both tired and could careless about what you're talking about but it's honestly just his presence in general.

• He's actually a pretty chill guy. You just gotta get used to him. Sure he could be a bit puzzling at times, but that's just one of his... charms?

• At some point you two just sit around, comfortably enjoying each other's presence in the dead of night. Except for Wild Guardy.

• He was, surprisingly, the first one to sleep on accident. He's too tired to realize, since he's passed out, so you just let him be. Then he wakes up and realized he left you alone and slept.

• He apologizes to you first thing in the morning.

• Other times you're the first to sleep on accident. He wakes you up as gently as he could be, which is not at all gentle, but he's working on it. Perhaps he could just let you sleep on his thigh? Perhaps. Probably not though.

#metal cardbot #메탈카드봇 #metalcardbot #Razzy's little headcanons

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not-trannydurden · 1 month ago

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STARSHINE FANG-GLINT

PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE

"HERE COMES YOUR MAN"

WARNING! NSFW! SMUT! SEX! GORE! DUBIOUS CONSENT!

ALIEN PARASITE x SPACE TRUCKER!!

Photocredit to H.R. GIGER (WATCHGUARDIAN and RUSTY FEMALE TORSO) and NASA

Having never mastered faster-than-light travel, our ambitions far overestimated our ability to tame physics. So now, if you want anything shipped from point A, to point B, then you are going to need some lowlifes that don't mind giving you forty, fifty, seventy years of their lives to sleep frozen in zero G for a good paycheck and dental. This is why PV2 Camuth Syntrax has been in this business for a very, very long time.

She used to be a girl with stars in her eyes and ambitions. Hell, the whole reason she signed up for this job was to pay for her HRT and tits. She wanted to be whole, at some point in the future.

Now? Well, now she's just a miserable asshole trucker. Who happens to have big tits.

During a routine operation, their freighter is flagged and deployed for a shady Hazmat job. This was supposed to be like any other shady, high paying freight job. Make that top secret military budget money, and only have to shift your morals to the side a little to do it. A trucker is a trucker. They don't control whats in the bay.

Hell, she could hardly tell the difference. Camuth was drunk for most of her waking hours, or balls deep in a stow-away or hitchhiker. This leap's flavor was a peppy biologist with a sadistic streak.

She couldn't begin to understand how ignorant this assumption was.

WARNING: This series will eventually contain Gore, Violence, Cannibalism, Body Horror, and Vore. This chapter will contain: Mild misogyny, A lot of sex scenes, mild mentions of gore and political violence, and some non-consensual flirting.

Also, here's a playlist link ^^ i'd like to thank anyone who may of helped my write the first draft of this; it would not exist without you.

In every star-freighter there is always one pod that leaves you feeling extra sick. It's kind of a running joke amongst truckers; of course, that being a colloquial term. An homage to societies of the past. No matter what, every voyage, you are gonna have one guy say it;

"Looks like I got the bad pod."

Bleary eyed and shivering from the thermaebath still. Can't stop getting the bends. Dizzy.

When you are in thermae, the ship doesn't produce artificial gravity. Why would it? Saves a lot more power this way.

So that spinning feeling you get when you are trying to take you first few steps; it's the fluids in your ears adjusting to the presence of any gravity.

So picture this; 14 runs, back to back; almost 3 years spent on jumps from system to system, taking advantage of a Cerebrachem shortage that was sweeping the same direction we are; then, on the way back you deliver beef for a chain of Corpo airlock-exchange fast food restaurants.

Teiren/Max Corp was meticulous with these sort of long hauls; they had to be worth the costs that it takes to pay experienced Truckers to waste 4 years away from home.

Lucky for me, the wages are great. The ship mates are fine, a couple of pretty girls, an android that you could swear was modeled to be a milf on purpose, and besides that; a few men.

Men who were smart enough to mind their business. Women in this industry had a nasty habit of mutilating the uncouth that came onto them.

Prison rules. Pick the biggest guy. Grab him by the nuts. Set an example.

Every 5 months you wake up for a few weeks; exercise, socialize, repair the ship and check on the precious cargo. This free time is perfect for when you want to smoke a cigarette or stare at a wall, or eat out that cute biologist tagalong that came to study blah blah blah blah blah blah...

What? Listen, if you saw this girls hips you'd understand. Hard to focus on much when you are wondering how her jumpsuit fits on, zips up in the center. Conceals all... that.

Maybe not though, because I can't remember why she's here, and we've spent the last 3 years having casual sex together. Watching horror movies and painting each other's nails. She compliments my bone structure a lot. I think she's weird, but in a hot way.

Dr. Leerson. Doctor Amelia Leerson.

Imagine that you are almost home when everyone, yourself included, is shot upright like frankenstein movie monsters; albeit almost 4 months early.

"We're not even close to schedule." Captain says. Cap's a big brawly man, pale, malnourished skin with a handlebar mustache. He's older than all of us, but he's healthy enough. Used to be a marine.

Still built like one, and even though he was a brick-shithouse, a lifetime of protein paste and nutrition gel had left him looking like a strung out corpse all the time.

He's already dressed and dry, meanwhile I'm still on hands and knees letting fluid pour out of my sinus.

"What doya...?"

He points to the automatic calender on the wall.

"Oh, uhuh...." I rub my chin, apparently deep in thought.

I couldn't remember the depart date.

A fat grey tabby goes waddling out of Leerson's pod. Pets didn't do good alone floating in zero g. It was wise to carry them with you. Picture egyptian burial rules. Anything you want when you wake up, make sure it's buried with you.

"We're gonna have to ration," Captain mumbled, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Cap was constantly talking about rationing, re-using, recycling. I don't think I'd ever eaten a fully allocated meal on this ship. The man was paranoid as all hell about something, anything, going wrong. Getting stuck out in deep space with a fuel injector malfunction, or a buggy navigation algorithm. So they saved old O2 filters. They distilled runoff from their engines into new fuel. They didn't eat enough.

"You'll thank me when we run out of fresh filters one day." Captain would always say, and we knew better than to argue.

"You're always saying that," said Leerson, who had been around just long enough to notice the pattern. Her voice was casually musical, almost teasing. "We're four months out, Captain. What's the worst that could happen?"

Cap just grunted and turned to go towards center command, the defacto meeting room and geographical center of the ship. In ancient history, all roads led to Rome. In the age of modern space freighting; all roads lead to the center command.

Despite still being nude from the Thermae process, I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Leerson just watches and laughs, before throwing me a towel.

"Camuth, get dressed and get ready for briefing." He paused and looked over his shoulder at Leerson. "And don't let them keep me waiting too long, Doctor."

Leerson smiled, faux innocent. I grazed my tongue across my teeth, hard, before finally heaving myself up off the ground next to my pod, towel still half clutched around me. I panted, my arms trembling slightly from exertion. My teeth chattered slightly, and I leaned my forehead against the frosted over metal of the pod, feeling the bits of sweat and thermae fluid freeze upon contact with each other, making my forehead buzz.

"Poor thing," Leerson teased, close enough that I could feel breath on my ear. I shivered in a different way at that. Leerson had a superpower that let her walk around noiselessly on metal grates. I felt her fingers wander around my midsection, spider-like in the way they dance between the folds of the scratchy orange towel and find their way to my cold pale flesh.

"I...- I gotta get dressed," I say, failing to fight back a sigh, halfway between contentment and unadulterated need. A half-whine.

"That's what we're doing," Leerson purrs. She was such a fox, and I meant that in the predatory sense. I meant that with flashes of broken necked bunnies and eviscerated squirrels in mind. Terrestrial viscerality, or sexuality. It all came from the same need.

"I'm helping you get dressed, Second Private."

Leerson said as she flicked a cruel nail once, letting the towel drop to the floor, exposing me.

"Now," she said, in tones that made me pissed and weak in the knees, "Just where did I put that jumpsuit..."

My head was spinning, and it was only half from the teasing. I really did feel like shit.

"Get a room, dykes!" Someone shouted as I tried my best to not make a face at her touch. There were no rooms on a freighter. Just notches in a wall big enough to fit a twin sized mattress.

For this reason, it was not uncommon to find your crewmates fucking on top of the coolant pipes, or on the cargo. You don't want to see what sort of use a hauling strap will find during one of these sessions.

Imagine every fast-food burger you've ever eaten, and imagine backshots being blown on cargo containers of every single of one of them.

"Yeah, fuck off, you're welcome." I say throwing up a middle finger to our electrician, Peter Schulzbern. We just called him Berns. He already has a baseball cap on. One from the tail end of the petrol-industrial era. When we still knew where Earth was. It reads: "I ❤️ NYC"

Leerson giggles, knowing that she's brushing up against my dick as she pulls my jumpsuit over me. Best part is that she's still halfnude, her jumpsuit only on like a pair of pants. Revealing two beautiful tits and a long neck. Biologists. It made sense. She was an animal. Better-yet to study them.

"I'm gonna go debrief honey, make me some coffee would ya?" I asked, and Leerson rolls her eyes.

"Oh yes sir Mr. Syntrax, right away." She says in a fake receptionist voice, making fun of me.

"Please, honey?" I ask, genuine vulnerability in my voice. She bites her tongue and smiles at me.

"Good girl." She says, and I shutter.

"You fuckin..." I'm whispering to myself as she walks away. Giving the whole crew a view of her tits as she stepped past the Thermaebay. Only once she reaches the door does she zip up her jumpsuit the rest of the way.

I'm staring, houndlike, at her ass with each step as I work to button my cuffs and adjust my collar to standard.

"Why do you always get the girl?" A voice asks, coming close behind me. I don't look. I know that it's Ricky Raffington. James Raffington legally. We just called him Rat.

"Because I am a girl. You think a piece like that isn't gonna want something soft and homely like me over some washed up Navy piece of shit like you? Ever?"

"I don't have nothing you don't have." Rat scowls, unable to stop himself from glancing at the strain I'm currently placing on my jumpsuit, specifically in the crotch area. I'd blown out the zippers on these things before. I was kinda proud of it.

"Besides game, you mean? An extra 4 inches?" I grinned, doing the final button that keeps my collar sinched with a satisfying snap. Berns, over in the corner and already working on touching up some corroded wiring, snickered.

"Fuck you," Rat spit, literally spit on the floor near my boot, before clomping away to go join in on briefing.

"Four inches my ass..." He mumbled as he went.

"Yeah, yeah, we've all been in the showers together, jackass!" I called after him. I sat there, feeling pretty good about myself, before-

"Get your ass in here, Private! What is this, a fuckin' pool party?" There was the captain, head and insanely wide shoulders poking their way into the cryo chamber, too impatient to spend the extra few seconds walking into the room proper.

I hurried up and over to central command, nearly tripping over myself as I went. The captain scared the shit out of me when he got loud like that...

Central command worked as a sort of secondary helm. The main helm, located towards the front of the ship and attached to the pilot's cockpit, was a fairly small room meant for just the captain and an attendant or two, and almost never saw any use during freight operations like this. Most functions on the ship were automated, anyways.

Central command was like the living room of the ship. It was in the exact center of the vessel, and all hallways eventually led back to it. It was located directly above the commons areas. This was the most important room in the vessel, the meeting place, the heart and mind of the freighter vessel.

Gathered in the room was nearly the whole crew. Leerson was off getting coffee, supposedly, and as a tag-along her presence was not required.

The engineers like Berns, about a half dozen of them, had been woken up first along with the captain, debriefed, and sent along to check vital components and fix the worst of the damage.

That left about a dozen of us left, gathered in various chairs and on desk or railings around the circular room. All shivering and weary from wake-up still.

Everyone here was someone who preferred to sit in a corner, with a back to their wall, and you could tell. Even after years (or more like a month) of travel together, everyone was cagey. No sets of fingers and eyes rested easy, everyone sizing each other up. I had gotten over that paranoid shit long, long, long ago. I just sighed and leaned up against the nearest wall, nodding at the Captain as I did.

"Thank you for joining us, Private." Captain said, smiling sardonically. "Do we have your permission to begin?"

Everyone snickered, especially the Rat.

"At 07:00, Yesterday morning we received a subcontract from upstairs. This isn't a freight contract. It's a Hazmat job. It'll take at least 4 Biomat Certified Technicians, and 2 Hazmat Certified Haulers."

He pauses for a moment.

"Raise your hand if you are Biomat Certified."

I raise my hand, a waifish fellow with long soft arms raises one of them, and so does my beloved... My one and only;

Minerva.

She stood at around 5'8, with milk tallow pale skin and black hair. Gleaming blue eyes; literally neon blue LEDs. She was my white whale. I would never get to her because she wasn't human. She was an android. Soft, plastic soft, skin like pleather seat cushions or latex condoms. Her blood was milk white, which for some reason did things to me.

"Great, so we're short a Biomat."

I think for a moment, then raise my hand.

"Second Private?"

"Dr. Leerson is Biomat Certified." I say, and a few people in the room whistle.

The captain ignores it. As long as the trains arrive on time, so to speak, he could care less what we get up to. I watch him think for a moment, star maps, navigation routes, and fuel costs flashing behind his eyes. Weighing the pros and cons, like he always did. After a moment, he nods.

"It'll save us a trip or two, then." says the Captain after a moment. I let myself feel a little proud and useful for a moment, before the feeling fades. Rapidly.

"And I believe most of the rest of you are Hazmat certified." A few murmurs of assent. A couple of nods.

"So. Onto the next thing..."

The rest of the briefing passes by normally. Captain reiterating that, yes, we will be rationing our food and other supplies until we touch down after the Hazmat job, and the usual groans that accompany that.

Only Minerva, me, and a couple of other old star-dogs don't complain. You'd think after the first dozen or so wake up cycles they'd learn, but, apparently not. I couldn't help but get a little nostalgic- or was that the right word?- had I been so slow to learn, too? So terrestrial?

Terrestrial was an odd word these days. It meant a lot of things. It was used to describe everything from nostalgia, familiarity, immaturity, primal emotions, and a lack of space legs. People had a lot of complicated feelings about where we'd started.

The homeworld, Earth, had been lost for ages now. No one knew for how long, or exactly when it had happened, just that one day, Earth was gone. Not destroyed, or crumbled, or uninhabitable, but actually lost. Amongst bureaucracy and papers and legalities and name changes; we couldn't find the birthplace of our species anymore. Among all other stars, planets, satellites, moons, and generation ships-

Earth was lost.

At least, that's how it was phrased. That's how people interpreted it, and I couldn't blame them. When you'd never even seen the damn thing, never felt fresh green grass between your toes or breathed in oxygen that wasn't filtered, well, it was no wonder they didn't realize the truth. That it wasn't Earth that had strayed too far from the porch and gotten lost in that deep, dark forest, never to return.

It was humans. They simply lost themselves.

One day, thousands and thousands of years after we scattered our terraformers across the stars, we built our cities. We turned the void of nothing between stars into our freeways.

Then, that old house Earth simply disappeared into that cosmic infrastructure. A grain of sand in a silo of gravel. Surely, it was out there, and there are even a few theories of which planet it could be, or where it went.

One day nobody knew where Earth was. It only existed in stories. Very, very few had ever been there and known it.

Anyway, I got over that existentialism a while ago. Personally, I'm grinning like an idiot with my dick bulging out as I stare at Leerson.

Debrief was simple.

It was a biological sampling, taken from a jungle planet that was only a 2 month detour from our route. And right now, with how much it paid; we could eat all this random beef byproduct and pay back the Krueger Deli Co with plenty to spare. I'm talking retirement money. Go get on a tropical island planet and jack off into a coconut all day money. Or, whatever rich people do.

Leerson came back with two mugs of coffee, ceramic and plain, with the company's logo on the side. Terrestrial. Quaint.

She sidled up next to me and passed me one without saying anything, a cream and three sugars in it without me having to ask her. Leerson could be a real sweetheart when she wanted to.

"You're Biomat Technician certified?" the Captain asked, eyeing the cup of coffee jealously. Everyone on this ship subsisted fairly heavily on the cafeteria coffee, and the Captain was one of the worst caffeine addicts aboard. Coffee beans were one of the few things we were allowed to be liberal with.

"Yessir." she replied, smiling politely. I scowled back at all jealous glares I was getting as I sipped my delicious fucking coffee.

"We'll go over what you missed later." Cap grumbled. "For now, the usual game plan goes: repairs and maintenance. I want extra effort out of all of you, too. We're adding an extra 2 months to our route and I don't want any busted filters or malfunctioning rods, am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," came the weary reply from the crew. The Captain's eyebrow twitched.

"Say it like you fucking mean it."

"Yes, sir!"

The captain smiled, just a little.

"Dismissed." He said, and everyone made a beeline for the cafeteria. After a moment of storming footsteps, it was just me and Leerson left in command. Sipping our coffees in tandem. She took hers black with a lot of sugar.

More on some days, less on others. I smiled at her, but I had to mostly force it.

"What's all the commotion, then?" She asked, a Neuvian accent. Neuvian sounded like old world British, with a slowness and methodicalness that sounded almost Japanese in nature.

The only reason I have any context to old-world accents is because of the stash of Westerns and Samurai movies the captain kept on-board. Old-world media is always in high demand; and companies make billions simply finding and restoring old vinyls.

"Some new contract sent down from management. Biological sampling. Hazardous materials, so it's pay is insane. I'm sure cap will give you a cut for helping out."

I say, trying to delay another sip of the bitter coffee. It was so dark today. She's grinning and munching on a tin-foil wrapped coffee cake. I wanted to taste her coffee breath in that moment.

"Oooh, exciting. Think it's an alien?" She said, giggling. Uhg. I wanted to swim laps in her. She was fucked the second we docked somewhere.

"No, probably just a bio-weapon or Malaria or something."

I take a long sip of the warm coffee.

I am a comms technician, besides just being a hauler and a decent repairman. So, today, my jobs included sending out our status report, getting in contact with the jungle planet's SatComms, to establish a timeline, and hopefully getting head from Leerson under my desk at some point.

I'm writing up the first status report when Minerva enters the room. She has that pleasant grin, like a cat's or a crocodile's. Always sly and a little smug. She knows something you don't.

"Good evening, beautiful." I say as she steps in, squeezing in a few looks over her amazing frame between looking at the screen I'm typing on. It was all analog here. Digital wasted too much power. Digital wishes it could have double-D tits on a shortstack body.

She laughs gently, covering her grin with a dainty hand, before carrying over manifests and maintenance reports to my desk to be bounce-faxed.

"Here you go, Camuth. Those reports that you requested."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Please, Minerva will do fine."

"What about goddess?"

She lets out a long, playful sigh.

"It's flattering, sweetheart. I'm not that kinda synth though." She says shaking her heard slightly.

"When we touch down, can I buy you dinner sometime?"

"When we get back, I will be put back into company assets."

"Can't have shit in space." I whisper to myself.

She rolls her glowing eyes, turning on her heel and honest-to-god sashaying away. I could swear she's putting extra swing into her hips just to fuck with me.

I sigh and roll my eyes towards the ceiling.

She could crush my skull like a fucking melon and I'd tell her thanks.

Or I'd try to. It'd probably sound more like "hoouggchhh" to be honest.

"Such a greedy little thing," said Leerson between sips of coffee.

I had almost forgot she followed me to my office.

"The heart wants what the heart wants, honey." I said.

"And the cock wants what the cock wants." She said, voice flat. She let a manicured hand rest on my inner thigh. Leerson had long, sturdy arms that let her reach over counters and on top of high shelves. They were just a little too long for her body, which did something for me. She took another long drink of her coffee, not breaking eye contact.

"That too, yes." My voice came a little hushed.

Siiiip...

"You always go still." She sets the coffee down behind her without looking. Ka-thunk. "Like you're waiting for a storm to pass."

"I'm just... taking it in." I say. My eyes dance over her. Her lips, her eyes, the zipper that's starting to undo itself from her tit's sheer mass. Lord.

"I think... you're just," Leerson steps into my space, facing me, pressing me up against the desk I'm half sat on and staring at me.

"A scared little creature..."

I lick my lips.

"Like... a squirrel?"

Her eyes curl into a look of confusion, and she giggles before she pounces on me. Lips and tongue way too eager, parting mine, spreading me open, invading me. Her teeth scrape, not sure if she's just that reckless or if she has to draw blood every time we make out. A fistful of my hair and my jumpsuit.

"I dreamed about this in cryo," she pants, wrenching my hair back so she can breathe into my ear. I stare at the floor and rut my cock against the tight spot in her jumpsuit between her legs, growing tighter as I get close to fucking her, abusing the plyable space-suit.

"Y-You can't dream in cryo, your brain-" I start to speak.

She kisses me again, filling my mouth with her spit.

I can't really recall what happened next. At one point she was licking the inside of my ear. She made me say "I'm your dog." over and over again, until she punched me in the stomach. Before I knew it, I was laid out across my desk, with my head awkwardly pressed against the terminal that was hard-wired in.

We both moan as I enter her slightly, her hips working as she stands above me and the desk. She had just finished sucking my dick; biting my thighs and ass hard enough that I'm sure I'll be bruised.

My cock twitches, and Lord, I'm about to ruin both of our suits and really give the Captain something to bitch about when-

She throws my head and body back, away from her, by the tangled grips of hair and fabric she was just holding onto like a lifeline. My head bangs against the wall, my breath coming in quick and panicked, and she unsheaths herself from me. My ears are still ringing by the time her jumpsuit is back on. I didn't cum. She might have.

Dr. Leerson smiles at me, spit still glistening around her mouth, hair messed up.

"See you later," she wiggles her fingers, and turns to go. But not before I catch a glimpse of how soaked through the crotch of her jumpsuit is. Lord. She turns and leaves, walking almost as magnificently as Minerva had just a few moments ago.

She's a memory, just the smell of sex in the air and your dick still refusing to give up. She was going to walk all the way to her lab like that too, the absolute animal. She's lucky everyone knows what I'd do to em' if they even looked at her funny.

I lean my head on my desk for a second to re-cooperate myself. She was absolutely hungry, absolutely cruel. Nothing but absolutes with this girl. No middle sliders. I've shared bunk with a pantheon of freight-hiking hobos and hippies, lots of girls of the night and girls of the street and girls of the whatever the fuck else.

No one had ever been nearly as insatiable as Dr. Amelia Leerson.

I think I'm in love. Or pregnant, I don't know, anyway, I scoop myself up off the desk and try to focus on the papers. Try is the keyword, because I have to shamefully jerk off twice to even muster half focus; after all of that.

Our next destination is nicknamed Osiris. It's designation is P-333, and It's Planetary consultant sounds half drunk when I call.

"Calling 16-43, This is Starfreight Demeter."

"Mmm what?"

I sigh.

"Starfreight Demeter, Calling in a land notice for... 43 days from now. Do you copy?"

"Copy... Watch out around landing time. That's monsoon season."

I yawn, this man's exhausted energy like a contagious flu.

"Copy, Thank you PlaCo."

Next, is to bounce-fax our reports to central command, or CeCo if you are feeling frisky. To bounce a fax is to send it careening through a semi-privatized string of local satellites until it reaches it's destination. You "bounce" it from satellite to satellite. It takes a while, but is incredibly cheap.

After that, I smoke a cigarette while reading the last chapter of some fantasy novel. The dragon was actually the wizard all along, by the way.

After that, When its around 14:23, thats Camuth's Special Hour. I setup my vinyl player, and plug it into the mic port. It plays it over the intercom. I keep all my old world vinyls under my desk. Today, I'm playing Talking Heads: 77 by Talking Heads, then it's The Doors by The Doors. Old worlders were incredibly creative when naming records.

After that I turn on 10 minutes of Thelonius Monk, and then I finish it with Califronia Uber Alles by Dead Kennedys, and then some old nations national anthem. The American One, not the canadian one; although that was equally funny.

Halfway through, I take a coffee and smoke break in the cafeteria.

"You're such a freak," said a voice from one of central's many, many entrances.

I turned in time to see a pale figure dragging a chair towards me. It was Sierpinski, one of the clones on crew. They were lanky, pale, with clear signs of clone degeneration tearing through them.

Besides the normal space-freighter paleness, Sierpinski was albino, with long fine hair, almost no body hair, and wine colored eyes that shined red when a bright light was near. They never removed their helmet on sunny planets.

Sierpinski, who didn't have a first name, had dodged the worst of the potential degenerative cloning symptoms. Excessive or misplaced facial hair. Various types of baldness. Increased risk of cancer, which Sierpinski did have, but at least they weren't sprouting tumors yet.

All things considered, Sier looked more like a beautiful wax figure than a half-baked copy of some old fuck's genetic code, sold off to a company for half price and high profits. Now, like most sold-off clones, they were used for dangerous and cheap labor, usually doing the jobs that were deemed too risky for normal workers.

"You ever gonna play normal music for us one day, Cam?" asked Sier, sitting backwards in the chair and grinning cock-eyed at me.

"You call that corpo synthesized trash you play 'normal'?" I grin back, and we trade a little handshake we made up together. Just a short thing. Sierpinski is one of my few other friends on this ship, and the only one of those that I hadn't fucked.

"At least the rest of the crew doesn't want to, uh, dig my eyes out with a spork."

"And how long you think that'll last when you keep hanging out with my ass, hmm?"

"Hopefully not much longer," Sier's grin turned positively shit eating. "I'm getting tired of visiting you."

We both chuckled as Sier rested their cheek on top of their arms, on the back of their chair, looking at me.

"So... whatcha think about this hazmat job?" They asked after a second, faux casual.

"It's weird, so I'm leaning towards military subcontracting. If I cared I would research the corpo that handed it down the line to us, but I don't. Jobs a job."

They sigh a little, and look over their shoulder for prying eyes.

"Listen, I got something I need to show you."

"Oh yeah?" I ask.

They sigh.

"Alright so I'm a bit of an eavesdropper right?"

They hand over a small camera. Mini-digi. About as small as a digital camera could get, and it was still viewfinder sized. I look into it's port at the loaded picture. It's of a monitor, in Minerva's lab. That lab doubled as Leermans at the moment. The screen was a readout, order from command that Synths practically absorb like scripture. It simply read;

PROTECT CARGO AT ALL COSTS

ALL OTHER PRIORITIES WAIVERED

CREW EXPENDABLE

"Huh."

That's all that leaves my lips as I stare at the picture in mild bemusement.

No. Befuddlement.

"Weird right?"

"I'm sure it's fine. The contract is bloody expensive."

Long sip of coffee. Pause. Both of us ponder the other alternatives.

"So why is it Biomat and Hazmat?"

"What do you mean?"

They sat upright in the chair, stashing the camera away in a satchel.

"Thirteen parsecs ago, a few crews before this one. I ran a militarized virus cargo. We only needed Hazmats. Biomat is usually reserved for..."

They sip their coffee, puff on a cigarette.

"Live Animals." I finish for them, realizing what they were panicking about.

"Okay, that one is pretty weird. Maybe the virus is in a monkey." I say, laughing a bit.

They smile, but it's weak. Wracked with concern.

"Something else." They say, Cylav accent shining like an old 80s communist bad guy.

"Uhuh."

"On the Buzzers. Talking with loved ones. I tell them 'we're going to Osiris.' They think it's strange."

"Why's that?"

"Osiris has been under quarantine for the past six months. They refused emergency landing to three separate vessels. That's illegal." They say.

"Huh..."

"So you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yeah, it's sketchy, but-"

"But what? We cannot take on this job."

"Oh, so what, we just quit?" I felt my eyebrow twitch in frustration. Sierpinski had a nasty habit of thinking they were always fucking right.

"We just go home, yeah? Take one of the shuttles and a paycut to fuel it and call it a day, yeah? Maybe we can share one and split the costs."

"Fuck you." Sier sighs, leaning away from me and sitting up straight in their stupid wide legged stance, the back of the chair like a wall between us.

"C'mon, Cam, you've been around longer than any of us. Even longer than Cap, depending on how you count it. You know this isn't right. I can see it in your eyes." Sierpinski sounds defeated. They stare at the floor.

"And what do you want me to do, Sier? You're my friend, but we're powerless here. You know that too."

"Sure, but we could talk to the Capt-"

"Who would say exactly what I'm saying. And then if- if we got him on side, what would he do? Talk to some lackey of the boards, and up and up and up-"

I sigh.

"It's too late. We'll never climb that ladder in time. Don't you see?"

I wait for Sier to look me in the eyes again before I finish.

"It's already too late."

...

"So we may as well do damn good job of it, yeah?" I propose.

"Yeah," Sier sighs, not meeting my gaze anymore.

"Listen," I grab their knee, my squeeze going straight from gentle and reassuring to manic and panicked. "It's just a hazmat. We follow protocol, we play it careful, and we're fine. Like any other job."

Sier stood up and left in a hurry, pausing once they hit the entrance to the nearest hallway.

"Our job," they said the word like a swear, "has a 63.9% mortality rate. That's not even counting the clones."

And then they were gone, and I was alone again.

------------------------------------------------------------

Me and Leerson bang a few times, dinner, sleep, breakfast; maintenance, and then after dinner that night, we all toast with some of the last vodka we have onboard.

Дай Боже! God help us.

We all get drunk, and myself and Leerson sloppily give each other head in the cryo room ten minutes before nap time.

Then, we all lay down. We all sleep. The big sleep.

....

Two months later, the routine happens. This time, I get the bad pod. Or I'm just hungover, because when I wake up my brain is broiling practically. I groan loudly. You weren't supposed to get in these things drunk.

Something Something average freezing point of your blood. Something Something brain damage.

Whatever, I'd done it plenty of times.

And I was perfectly fine.

Coffee, Even Cap is quiet as we all shuffle to the main quarters. The center table is a circle, a huge one that fits all 26 crew members. Leerson practically sitting on my lap as we both chug coffee and eat tin-foil wrapped cornbread. She snuck Elysian Honey in her carryon.

Having a huge dick really has it's perks. Like honey on cornbread.

I'm putting on a pressure suit; Replacing an antennae.

Something dinked us while we were asleep and almost gave center command a heart attack. Leerson corners me in the airlock bay and kisses me deeply; before plugging in my larynx-chord, and helping me with my helmet.

"Stay safe out there."

"Oh honey, don't worry ... ... ... Done thousands of these." I say, through the oxygen injector cutting my sentence in half and forcing my breath back down my throat.

She nods, and I step into the airlock. She closes the door, and suddenly in my ear, I hear Sier's voice.

"Alright, let's do this nice and safe today, ja?"

"Who let an alcholic cloned ... ... commie monkey ... ... operate CommSat?"

"Eat shit, Cammy."

"No thank you, but ... ... ... maybe piss if I'm drunk enough."

This makes them laugh. The suspense of the wait. You gotta time things well in these suits.

The airlock depressurizes, and suddenly I'm living life in a ziplock bag. Void pinching around me.

I actually love this feeling, once my eyes and the rest of my body adjust and I can stop squinting.

Spacewalks were peaceful, to me. I didn't really fear for my life or get wildly anxious about falling out into space like some of the more terrestrial crew members. It was like any other job. Just do it right, and you don't get any problems.

And there was the tether besides. Motherfuckers always forgot the tether.

So yeah, Cap usually gave me this job, which suited everyone just fine. The rest of the crew probably would have drawn and quartered me by now if I wasn't the designated Space Walker™.

I take a deep breath of filtered air, my favorite, and let my gaze sweep out over the fields of stars. There was nothing out here, no suns close enough to hurt my eyes through my horrifically thick and deeply tinted helmet visor.

I turned- the automatic air jets in my suit activating in tune with my muscle movements and responding to me, allowing me to move in Zero G.

I'd used far, far clunkier suits, heavy things that controlled more like tanks with too much momentum and often led to first time space walkers splattering themselves on the hulls of their ships.

Even though the suits were far sleeker and almost completely automated these days, that imagery had never left. People still had images of splintered bones and mangled metal, burst O2 canisters sending tiny beads of blood out, out, into space, forever drifting with the inertia of a wasted death.

Couldn't be me. Skill issue to be honest.

There, past the helm of the ship, was one star that was maybe five times larger than the pinpricks around it. A small ink blot of white light that shone through the darkness like a beacon. Our job lay there, more or less.

I whistle a workman tune, comedically interjected with the oxygen tubes forcing my lungs to expand, while I kneel in position, starting to unscrew the original antennae, and getting the new one ready. The old one's tip is broken off and melty. Poor thing.

I tuck the scrap metal into my pack, and then get to work rewiring it's base, making sure everything is still steady.

I could practically tap dance out here if I wanted to. The artificial gravity always made these things a cake walk. Just don't be an idiot.

And pray a meteor too small for your radar to pickup doesn't come.

"Hey, Cam, You hear the Ceruvian Civil War ended?"

"No shit?"

"Mhm, The rebels won too. Silicosteel Corp made some deal with them and now have mineral rights."

"Huh. Well ... ... ... I guess it's better than ... ... ...nothing."

I'm stepping back to the hull but... I turn back and look at the ink blots. I grab my view finder and look out. At the speed we were going, we'd be arriving in 26 hours. I zoom in.

Osiris. The planet is covered in dense storm clouds. It sits grey. It looks sickly. Doesn't help the pit in your stomach as you watch hurricane clouds swarm and swirl.

"Cam?"

I jump and little, and grip hard on the viewfinder.

"Everything good?"

"Yeah, sorry, I was... starspotting."

"Mhm, well c'mon cowgirl, you are wasting o2."

The airlock hisses and pressurizes behind you. The room fills with matter. You swim in it again as you start to twist your helmet off.

On the other side is a short, tiny femboy.

He would punch you if he heard you say that, but he was. Cricket is what everyone called him. Everyone also made him clean the vents for that reason. He was holding a clip board, and looking up at me.

"Hey, cutie."

"Don't."

I snicker, and start to zip off the pressure suit. Cricket was the ship's Nutrition Officer. Basically, he handled the food, cooked and freeze dried everything between wake-ups.

He actually wakes up three days before us to make sure all of our food is up to code. Which is why he always looked exhausted.

One time he had fallen asleep on my chest while we were watching some alien movie on the television.

To over exert my point, Cricket had never even let our hands touch when he handed me food. Still, he worked harder than most of us.

"I need you to authorize the credit charges for rations."

"Oh, ... ... ... and what if I don't?" I ask, and then finally rip the tubes out of my nostrils, with an unflattering gag.

"Then I'll feed you the leaking xerox gel out of the radiator."

I laugh, and took his papers. End of shuttle shit. Everyone for the next few weeks was going to need their papers signed and faxed. Papers they were supposed to do months ago.

"Okay honey."

"Thanks." He said, eye twitching ever so slightly.

I couldn't help it, really. It was compulsive. I'd told him so before.

He'd said I should kill myself about it. Once, he'd threatened to call HR on me. I just laughed and told him to go ahead.

I laughed even harder when the Captain told Cricket to, and I quote: "Suck it up."

So good.

I looked down at the shortstack and smiled my best crocodile smile. The one that drove him crazy. Cricket's nose wrinkled and he made a noise of disgust.

"You are an animal, you know that?"

"We're all animals baby," I replied, leaning forward. "Lemme show you what animals do-"

WHAP

Cricket slapped me in the face. Full palm, hard. Hard enough that I knew my face would be red for a few minutes after. I blinked in shock and rocked back on my heels.

Ah, my old friend... 'Did I just get hit?'

Cricket is already stomping away in his chunky space boots by the time I'm back to my senses. I let out a low whistle.

"What a woman," I say to no one in particular.

"That 'woman' is a 5'4" man who could kill you with his bare hands if he wanted to."

I jump, forgetting that my headset isn't attached to my spacer helmet.

"I'd rather he break my neck with those thighs of his. Mmmh." I pause after a moment.

"So you heard that, huh?"

"Ooh yes. A real solid one, eh? Your mic peaked." Sierpinski replies.

"I think I'm in love."

"I will never understand you."

"He has hips that make me wanna get him pregnant. Simple biological urges, Sier."

"You are a fucking idiot."

"I know, I know. You better not be recording this session."

"I already deleted the archive."

I grin and put a cigarette to my lips. Face still stinging. I'm about to go rail Leerson over her little research table, maybe even make Minerva watch for as long as it takes her to leave the room. But then;

"Second Private Syntrax, Please report to garden bay for rewiring duty."

I grit my teeth. That's Nutritional Officer grounds. I bet Cricket was thrilled to hear that announcement.

I have one of those changes of hearts that come with really not wanting to push someone to the actual point of murder. Last couple of jumps. Then we're all home.

I pickup a toolbox on the way over, and slap Jameson's ass as I walk past him. He's one of two physicians onboard. He laughs, and points a meaty finger at me.

"See you on the court tonight, bitch." He says.

"You'll wish you hadn't when I'm done porking your shit."

I turn the corner and the shit eating grin turns sour.

I punch in access to the greenhouse. This part of the ship was very important. So, I get misted with sterilizing agent and then step through a tent flap, after putting on a clear plastic body suit. I have to put all the tools through a wash too.

Cricket is sitting in the corner, by a access panel next to a display.

"Hey, I wanted to apologi-"

"No." He says.

Cricket sighs, and shakes their head. Speaking delicately and angrily in a way that made my head spin.

"No, just... I shouldn't of laid hands on you. It was unprofessional." He says, crossing his arms.

I shrug, sorting my toolbox back together as they all come out of the sterilizer.

"No, It's okay, I get it. I've been chasing you for a while now, you are straight and I'm sure i-"

"What? I am not straight." He says.

A moment of quiet sits between us as I move closer to the wiring.

"Why do you hate me so much then?"

"Because you are persistent and annoying. And greasy. and an alcoholic. Not to mention, even if I were straight, you are a girl, no?"

"Well... You got me there." I say, sighing. We both sit in silence for a second.

"I'm... I'm sorry. This detour has just got me all frazzled. We were barely gonna pull through our original course there, with half rations. We're going to be down to... Spirulina pucks and Protein paste, disgusting." He says, sighing.

I'm disconnecting some faulty wires, and reattaching new wires while I listen.

"You are a really good chef. I'm sure you'll figure something out." I say, absent mindedly as I work.

He sighs a little, and looks up at the UV lights that were currently awake.

"Why did you start working freight?" He asks.

"Paying for my surgeries and hormones. After my first few runs all my friends were dead. Figured I just keep doing this."

I spark a soldering iron a few times, testing it's battery pack, before sitting back and looking at the wires as if they were a beautiful art piece.

"What about you?" I ask.

"It started with a way to see the worlds. See other culture's cuisines. But... I don't really even know anymore. At a certain point it just became cornbread and diet schedules..."

He laughed a little, but it's sour. A heavy silence. I close the panel, and stand upright.

"We still have all that synthyolk from that misdelivery right?"

"Mhm, Why?" He asks.

"And plenty of flour, right?"

"Always."

We step into the sterile-locker room and put our used jumpsuits in the dirty bins.

"Well... Maybe tonight you could whip up a pasta. Watch one of those Ceruvian monster movies you like so much?" I ask.

He's quiet, thinking as we walk out of the green house together.

"Leerson stowed away some Elysian Prawns in the freezer. I think she forgot about them." I say, maybe sweetening the deal.

"You aren't going to try to fuck me the whole time?"

I scoff a little.

"I'll do my best not to be a horny weirdo."

He grins a little.

"It's a date then." He says, squeezing my hand. I can still feel the outline of his slap and for some reason those two combined stimuli make my dick throb.

"You sure you wanna use that word with me?" I raise an eyebrow.

Cricket half shrugs, clearly trying not to get pissed at me again already.

"Just be good. Please?"

"Oh, I'll be sooo good."

Cricket drops my hand like a sack of bricks and walks away. Not quite storming off.

Me and my big fucking mouth. But hey, I still had a date for tonight. His words, not mine. I try to muster up the energy to feel bad about it and find myself coming up short. Oh well.

Right before the short... man? walks out of sight, he turns back around, face is that familiar annoyed mask that I'm used to again. He opens his mouth once, twice, then closes it again.

"I'll see you later," he says finally, and leaves.

I sigh, and barely have enough time to oogle him before I'm tightening connector-pins again.

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violetmuses · 3 months ago

Text

Concrete - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹 🫂

Title: Concrete - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹 🫂

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Main Storyline: Mike, Christine, and Armando bond with someone. 🏷 @adoresmiles

=====

2024

“Y'all ready to go?” Following another dark case, Detective Mike Lowrey pulled strings and helped one disadvantaged teen until further notice.

“Who's taking the passenger seat?” The high school senior offered that question to Mike this weekend.

“My wife.” Mike said, grabbing car keys of his classic Porsche and nodded toward Christine Lowrey, a physical therapist.

“Fair enough. Armando, we're late!” This high school senior yells toward that ceiling.

Music blasted upstairs!

After facing questions or encountering different secrets, Mike Lowrey even stood as the biological father of previous criminal Armando Aretas.

When the playlist cut, footsteps emerged and Armando prepped at last.

“Did you bleach that shirt yet?” The teen laughed near Aretas.

Wearing this Bud Light shirt, Armando chose one trucker hat that veiled his brown eyes. Jeans covered both legs, and these boots stepped along.

“C'mon, dude. It's already hot.” Jokingly ignoring that teenager, Armando heads out for a day at the park.

AMMO planned that big-time cookout for the Miami Police Department.

No matter what happens next, unity would make all the difference.

#au fanfiction #fanfiction #drabble requests #short fiction #movies #jacob scipio #bad boys #armando aretas #bad boys ride or die #bad boys for life #armando #❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹#short story #slight angst #dark themes #angst with a happy ending

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ladytabletop · 1 year ago

Note

4 and 19 off your spotify? 🎉

Dancing in the Moonlight by King Harvest

The Passenger by Iggy Pop

#sorry anon you got 2 trucker playlist ones

0 notes

sjsmith56 · 5 months ago

Text

The Way Station

Summary: Bucky waits out a heavy fog at gas station restaurant where he is confronted by a man with an agenda.

Length: 3.5 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Dorothy (OFC server), Red (OMC trucker), assorted bystanders.

Warnings: Implied homophobic and racist slurs by one character, bullying, supernatural vibes.

Author's notes: Something a little spooky. I've been fooling around with the idea behind the Way Station, as an original short story, for some time but was never satisfied with it. Thought it might fit with Bucky Barnes as the main character, so I adapted it and changed it to fit him. A way station typically referred to a station on the railroad where a slower train could pull off to allow a faster train to pass, or was at a junction where transfers of passenger or freight could be made. Image of Bucky on a motorcycle was created by the author on Microsoft Copilot app in Designer mode.

🌫️ 🏍️ 🥧

At the time Bucky thought it was a good idea to ride his motorcycle from New York to Delacroix. Hitting the open road, going at his own pace and stopping where he wanted, when he wanted, sounded like a recipe for an enjoyable time. He could listen to his favourite music playlist without anyone (Sam) asking why it always had to be 1940s music. Now on the third day, it was getting close to sunset, and he still had an hour before his destination. After texting Sam with his ETA, he knew a cold beer would be waiting and probably some jambalaya. Then the fog drifted in, accumulating in some of the lower marshy areas and ditches at first. Slowly it spread its tentacles across the road, making it harder and harder to see. Not only that but there had been a few close calls with vehicles going the other way passing others in his lane, and barely missing him, even though he steered his motorcycle as far to the right as he dared. When the last pass got too close for comfort Bucky decided that enough was enough and he pulled in at the next rest stop, a gas station with a small restaurant attached in a place called False River.

Pulling up to the restaurant, he parked his motorcycle, took off his helmet and looked at where he was before taking his cell phone to text Sam that he was going to be late. Noting the no cell service message, he sighed then stepped inside the restaurant, to ask if they had a pay phone. They did, but it was out of order. He asked to use their business phone but when he called Sam, the connection was poor, and he gave up in frustration.

The waitress, sorry, they were called servers now, a matronly woman with dyed hair and a name tag on her uniform that said Dorothy, looked at him with sympathy.

"It gets like that sometimes," she drawled, in a thick southern accent. "Especially when the fog comes in. Don't know why it does that honey, but it does. So, sit a spell, have some coffee and a piece of pie. You'll feel better."

With a nod, Bucky sat at the counter, ordered a black coffee and a piece of apple pie. It arrived in moments, and he took the first bite, then smiled at Dorothy.

"That's good pie," he stated.

"I know, honey, that's why I recommended it," she replied. "Where you headed?"

"Delacroix. Staying with a friend for a while."

"If he's a good friend he'll understand. I'm sure they get their share of fog there as well."

The door opened to a senior citizen couple, who commented about the thick fog and almost getting sideswiped by a semi. Dorothy was just as sympathetic to them as she was to Bucky and offered them the same thing, coffee and pie, before asking where their destination was. As more people came in to wait out the fog, Bucky began wondering how many apple pies she had in the back. They all came out warm and tasty, while the coffee was hot and plentiful, as she continually topped up the cups. After about an hour, the number of people entering seemed to slow down, until a woman and her young daughter arrived, followed by a trucker with a company shirt on and the embroidered name tag "Red" prominently displayed over the left front pocket of his shirt. No one came in after him. He took his hat off when he sat at the counter.

"Dorothy," he said curtly. "Got any apple pie left?"

"You know it, Red," she replied, her usual cheerfulness dimmed a bit. "Coffee, too?"

"Yup. Going to be a long night. Haven't seen fog this thick in a while. I'm sure by morning we'll be hearing of a few accidents."

"Well, we'll see," she replied, looking out the window in a worried manner. "Hope it's not too many."

"You know how it is, Dorothy," answered Red, sipping his coffee first. "People in a hurry never seem to watch where they're going."

She didn't look convinced. Bucky finished his apple pie, then looked up at Dorothy as she approached with a coffee pot.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked politely.

"$5 but why don't you keep your tab open in case you get hungry? You could be here for a while."

"I like to pay my debts," he smiled. "It's just the way I am."

"Fair enough," she winked back.

Taking the twenty he gave her; she rang it up on the till and brought back $15. In his wallet, Bucky had a dollar bill, and he gave her that for a tip, earning himself another wink, as she tucked it down the front of her uniform and into her bra. Several other people asked to pay, and she said the same thing to them. About half decided not to pay until later, ordering some French fries or beignets, with a refill of their coffee for the latter. Someone put some money in the jukebox and some lively Cajun music started playing.

Red, the trucker, finished his apple pie and carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin, looking all around at the various people before settling on Bucky.

"I know your face," he said. "You're that fellow that helped Captain America in New York with those Flag Smashers. What's your name, son?"

Sighing, Bucky answered, keeping his voice lowered so as not to attract attention.

"Bucky Barnes."

"You used to be that Winter Soldier, too, didn't you?"

He could feel the warmth on his face, when several others looked at him, feeling their eyes assessing him, perhaps passing judgement on him.

"Yes, but I'm not him anymore. I'm James "Bucky" Barnes and I received a pardon, plus I made amends to the families of my victims. I don't kill anymore."

"Hmph," grunted Red. "How do we know you're telling the truth? Why, I bet if you wanted, you could kill everyone of these fine people without building up a sweat."

"Red, leave the man alone," warned Dorothy. "He hasn't done anything untoward since he got here. He paid for his actions."

Smiling slightly at Dorothy for her intervention, Bucky turned his attention back to Red.

"I don't kill anymore. I never wanted to be that person. It was forced on me."

"So, you say. How many of you good people in here believe that?" Several people raised their hands. "Hmph. Looks like you have fans."

"Red, I'm warning you. Play nice or you're out the door." Dorothy frowned at him, as she poured Bucky another coffee. "Pay him no mind. He's always been grumpy, for as long as I've known him."

Red raised his hands in surrender and turned his attention away from Bucky. The wife of the senior couple had pulled some cards out of her purse and was dealing the cards for some game, Hearts maybe. Red watched them for a while, making a suggestion or two. But the couple ignored him, and he got bored, and moved along, looking at what others were doing. Another woman was playing solitaire and he made suggestions again which earned him a frown. Once again, he put his hands up in supplication. Bucky didn't turn to watch him, but he was listening, and he made himself very aware of where the man was, wondering what his problem was.

"Damn," muttered Dorothy, shaking her head. "He's bothering that lady with the little girl now."

"Well, sweetheart, what might your name be?" he asked, in a syrupy sweet voice that set Bucky's nerves on edge.

"Pansy," she replied, in a shy voice.

"Like the flower?" he asked. "Or like the little boys that were scared of their shadows?"

"Hey, don't say that to my daughter," responded her mother. Bucky turned around, ready to intervene. "She's named after my grandmother, okay? I happen to like pansies. They're happy flowers."

"If you say so," answered Red, stepping back with his hands up again.

Bucky looked the man in the eye. "Hey mister, why don't you leave people alone?"

"Or what, you'll go all Winter Soldier on me?" joked Red. "I'm sure all these people would like to see that."

"No, but I will pick you up and take you outside. No one's bothering you but you sure seem intent on bothering them."

"Oooh, I'm scared. I'm just bored, Soldier Boy. Speaking of boys ...." Red turned to see an Afro American family sitting together in a booth. "Why don't you give us a little song and dance while we're waiting."

"Say what?" asked the man who was obviously the father. "You're way out of line, mister."

Red mimicked the man, looking like a spoiled child as he did it, while Dorothy shook her head in disgust.

"If you want to bully someone, bully me," said Bucky, standing up now, and looking directly at Red. "Don't pick on kids or anyone else. Give it your best shot."

The man grinned and came over to Bucky looking up at him as he was several inches shorter.

"You couldn't take what I want to say to you."

"Try me."

"Okay." Red put his hands on his hips. "I think you liked killing. How many people did they say?"

"They didn't because even I don't know for sure. At least 60 that I do remember."

The trucker nodded. "Kids, too?"

"Sometimes, and women. I couldn't disobey. Not proud of it, but I'm trying to reconcile it and several of my victim's families have forgiven me."

"But not all of them. Tell me how you did it."

"No, not to you, not to anyone. That's my horror to live and I'll take that to my grave."

"Coward."

"If that's what you believe, nothing I say will change your mind. I'm no coward. I'll help anyone who needs it, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else."

"You try to help those Flag Smasher people?"

"I tried to talk them out of it, but their leader had already gone too far and wasn't ready to turn away from what she started. She made her decision, and it killed her."

"Well, I think you're a liar," sneered Red. "I think you should be shot for what you did."

"You're entitled to your opinion," answered Bucky. "The people that decide those things disagree."

"And what do you think, really, deep down? You think you deserve that pardon? You think you deserve to live? All those innocent people that you killed, with their blood on your hands, you think you're better than them?"

Bucky looked at Red for a long time, not feeling angry or disgusted really by his line of questioning. The man's hate oozed out of him like sludge, and it seemed like everything he was saying was meant for Bucky to react in a negative way, tempting him to lash out. The thing was, that Bucky had already gone through that process. How many walls had he punched in despair? How many times had he woken up screaming in the night after a nightmare? How often had he had a flashback in the middle of a happy occasion, because some small detail reminded him of one of the victims?

"I'm no better than anyone else." His voice was calm. "I was captured by HYDRA, tortured until I didn't know who I was, and forced to be their killer. Since I broke away from them, I haven't killed anyone because it's not in my nature. Everything HYDRA did to me was undone, except for the deaths that they were responsible for, their targets. I will never forget the people I killed and even if they had no one else to remember them, they have me."

The man scowled and turned away. Bucky glanced at the people around him, seeing respect in their eyes as he returned to the counter. Dorothy smiled at him and topped up his coffee. Red was looking outside, then came over to the counter and threw some money on it. Taking his cap, he jammed it on his head and headed for the door.

"The fog is letting up and I've got a shipment that has to be in New Orleans in an hour. If anyone wants to convoy with me, you're welcome to do it."

Then he was out the door. Several people got up and came to pay their tab. Dorothy tried to caution them about listening to Red but none of them hesitated and after paying her, they headed out the door. It was definitely quieter in there after the man and the others left. After almost an hour, someone else stepped outside and came back in.

"Sky's visible," he said. "Looks like the fog has moved on."

The people lined up to pay their bill. The woman with the little girl spoke up.

"My car broke down a bit north of here. Can anyone help?"

"I can," said Bucky. "If you're okay with it."

She smiled and he waited for her to pay her bill. They headed towards the door, but Dorothy called out to him.

"You're a good man, Bucky Barnes," she pronounced. "Don't let anyone say otherwise. Red's always itching for a fight, and you stood up to his nonsense very well."

With a wave, Bucky, the woman and her daughter headed out into the dark together and walked north.

"Thank you for standing up to that man," she said, along the way. "He gave off a lot of bad energy." She looked at Bucky. "You don't."

"Thanks," he replied. "I don't like bullies. My friend had to deal with them as a kid and I always backed him up."

"You mean Captain America?" she asked. "We saw the display at the Smithsonian."

"Yeah? They changed my part, now that they know I'm alive."

"I'm glad you are," she said. "To come through what you suffered is a testament to your real character. That's how I see it."

"Thank you."

They arrived at the car, and she popped the hood, both of them activating the flashlights on their cell phones. Bucky checked all the connecting wires, then saw her one battery connection was loose. Using his metal hand, he tightened it, ignoring the strong electrical shock he could feel.

"Try it now," he said, stepping back.

She got in, put the key in the slot and turned it, smiling as it started right away.

"Thank you, I'll give you a ride back," she said, as she belted her daughter into the car seat in the back.

Sitting in the front with her, he buckled up and she drove towards False Creek, but it was gone. His motorcycle was on a bare patch of ground next to the road, but the gas station and restaurant weren't there. They both stepped out.

"Where did it go?" she asked. "You were parked right in front of the restaurant, weren't you?"

"Yeah, I was."

He walked past his motorcycle towards the bushes that were there, using the flashlight function on his cell phone to illuminate beyond them. There were only more bushes and trees. Scratching his head he turned back to her.

"Okay, that's spooky. Why don't you wait until I start up my bike and I'll tandem with you, just to make sure there's nothing else spooky going on."

She nodded, returning to her car and getting inside. When he pulled up behind her, she put her car into gear and led the way. About 10 minutes later they saw the tell-tale red and blue flashes of emergency lights as an accident had blocked the road. All of the cars of people who had just left from the restaurant were ahead of them, as they had been stopped by a deputy. Bucky stopped his motorcycle and put the kickstand down, then walked towards the lights, stopping at the car with the woman.

"Stay here," he advised, before moving on.

The next car's driver rolled his window down and stuck his head out.

"Looks like a bad one."

"Yeah," replied Bucky. "I'm going to check it out."

He got to the front of the line, recognizing every one of the drivers as patrons in the restaurant that waited. Approaching the deputy who kept them there he nodded towards the tangled mess.

"Looks bad. Anyone killed?"

"Most of them. Happened during the fog more than an hour ago. What they were doing driving is beyond me. This part of the highway is bad for it and most people just wait for it to pass but these guys must have been in a hurry to get to New Orleans, or something. It's going to be a while, so stay put and we'll let you through once we clear one side of the road."

Bucky nodded and headed back, telling everyone what he had found out. As he sat on his motorcycle he took his phone out and saw he had a signal. He dialled Sam.

"Well, we were wondering what happened to you," came his friend's response.

"Yeah, there's a big accident on the highway south of False River," said Bucky. "Waited out the fog in a restaurant there but several people headed out with a trucker to get to New Orleans. They didn't make it, although I didn't notice the truck, come to think of it. I don't know when I'm getting there."

There was silence on the other end for a while. "You said False River? Bucky, there hasn't been a town called False River since the 1850s. There's no restaurant near where it used to be, either. Are you sure of your location?"

"Hold on," said Bucky, as he checked his map app. There was no False River. "You know, it's the damnedest thing. A lady needed help getting her car started, a bit north of the restaurant. I left my motorcycle there while we walked to her car. When she brought me back, the gas station and restaurant were gone. It was just bush."

"Wait a second," said Sam. Bucky could hear a muffled conversation, presumably with Sarah. "Buck, was there a waitress there named Dorothy and the trucker was Red?"

"Yeah, those were their names," exclaimed Bucky. "She was nice but he was a major asshole. Tried to goad me into reacting but I kept my cool. That's when he convinced people to convoy with him to New Orleans."

Sam passed that on to Sarah, who shrieked in response.

"Damn, you were at the Way Station," said Sam. "It's a local legend, that says the Devil and one of God's angels have an encounter. People are brought in, including someone who will face judgement on the day of their death. If that person defends themself righteously, the Devil loses but it's said he often tries to convince people to trust him and leave with him, to make up for not getting the big fish. Those that do, don't make it. Those that don't leave, live and get to go on their way."

"And the person being judged?" asked Bucky.

"They'll go to heaven," stated Sam. "They'll be pronounced a good person who has earned the right to pass through the Pearly Gates. Sounds like you faced the Devil and won."

"You know I'm not a believer anymore."

"Doesn't matter. Someone up there believes in you. We'll talk tomorrow about it. I'll make sure the door is open. The couch is ready and waiting."

"Thanks, Sam. See you when I see you."

He hung up and sat there for the longest time, not noticing when the car ahead of him began to move until the vehicle behind beeped its horn. With a wave, he put his helmet on and started up his motorcycle for the final hour of his trip. Even with that time he found it hard to believe that he had faced the evil one himself. Yet, the proof was there. The restaurant and gas station had disappeared into thin air, followed by the fatal accident on the way to New Orleans, not 10 minutes away from where he sat out the fog. Then he thought of Dorothy's words that he was a good man. Maybe, just maybe there was something to the legend of the Way Station.

One Shots Masterlist

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

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Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places.

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not.

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars.

Anyway, Rule #3.

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, ��Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?”

“I’ll take some water.”

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?”

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.”

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?”

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it.

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets.

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you.

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips.

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile.

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.”

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?”

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.”

“And how long you been doin’ this?”

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?”

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth.

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.”

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?”

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?”

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative.

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush.

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back.

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar.

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.”

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.”

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?”

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take.

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?”

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.”

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?”

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area.

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway.

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga.

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker.

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?”

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?”

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.”

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy.

“I’ll take it.”

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8.

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack.

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well.

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border.

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?”

The dog tilts his head in response.

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat.

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles.

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?”

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both.

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment.

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag.

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?”

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.”

“Need anything else before ya go?”

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?”

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee.

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges.

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.”

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?”

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.”

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.”

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.”

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out.

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.”

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile.

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life.

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.”

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens.

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?”

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.”

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests.

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement.

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion.

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?”

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.”

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault.

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave.

He waves back.

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves.

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?”

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step.

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.”

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance.

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction.

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement.

Not just your boots.

His, too.

They get closer with every beat.

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there.

That moment is enough to blind you.

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid.

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist.

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!”

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders.

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward.

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl.

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate.

[ Next Chapter ]

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